LEGACY An Eastern Bay photographer documented the author’s baby daughter’s time on earth.
OCTOBER is a month for recognising Baby Loss Awareness. An Eastern Bay woman shares her personal story on stillbirth in the hopes that it will help people to better understand the impact of pregnancy and early infant loss.
I remember going online in 2013, through the haze of elation and sleep deprivation that a new mother knows, to complete my son’s registration of birth. I got to a question where it asks,
“Was your child born alive, or was your child stillborn?” I remember thinking to myself, “Oh God, how horrendous would it be to have to tick that box?”
Nearly two years later I did have to tick that box, and it was more painful, and more horrendous than I could ever have anticipated. Our daughter was stillborn at 35 weeks after succumbing to a cord accident – it’s rare, but it happened to us.
We found out at 20 weeks we were having a girl and at 34 weeks my friend and I went shopping for a wardrobe of little girl outfits – a novelty after having a boy. Our family’s world came tumbling down one September day when I realised I hadn’t felt my wriggly little girl move for a while. A scan confirmed the absolute worst – her heart had stopped beating – she was dead.
The following day I was induced for labour. My contractions built through the night and the following morning, our daughter was born. She was perfect, but she was so still. I willed her heart to start beating. My husband and I held her, our midwife bathed her, we clothed her, and our mothers came to meet her. I’ll never forget my mother’s grief for her daughter – wanting to make everything okay again, just as I did for my daughter. We took her home to meet her brother and sisters who had been so anxiously awaiting the arrival of a healthy baby girl. There is something so irreparable about moving so swiftly from the excitement and anticipation of a new baby, to dealing with the death and loss of that child.
Stillbirth is not something you plan for. No one likes to think about that stuff, let alone talk about it. But then all of a sudden, we had no choice. We were fortunate to have the support of a group called Sands – a network of parent-run, non-profit groups supporting families who have experienced the death of a baby.
We were given material to read, a special flax kete with memory-making kits and keepsakes, a moses basket for our little girl to lie in and clothing and blankets that had been donated. You’re just never prepared for these things, but Sands Whakatane helped to ease the burden at that point in time. The reading material suggested we may like to have photos to look back on, and we were fortunate to have a local photographer come and document our little girl’s time on earth.
Since losing my daughter, I have observed the many ways in which people deal with our loss. There are perceptions that losing a baby to miscarriage or stillbirth is preferable to losing a toddler, or a grown child. Who knows? Maybe it is. But what I wouldn’t give to know what my little girl would look like now; what her giggle sounds like; how her hair would have grown.
We have no memories – only shattered dreams. No proud Facebook posts of milestones reached. No school assemblies to attend. No sideline cheering on the sportsfield. She was a part of me for nine months, and then she was gone. My husband’s time with her was just about to begin, and then she was gone. Emptiness just doesn’t even describe it.
I remember a woman saying to me, “Don’t worry dear, there’ll be another one.” As if I’d just missed the bus and could catch the next one. We don’t replace children. I have since spoken to many parents who have lost babies at all stages of pregnancy, and they all hurt with the loss.
They all wonder what could have been.
My husband and I held a remembrance service for our daughter. We sang waiata and read out poems. We shared the dreams we had for her.
We gave her the identity and acknowledgement she deserved. We have been open with our journey through grief and loss, but many mourn silently.
LAYETTE: The outfit gifted to the author to dress her daughter in for the funeral.
Questions get thrown at couples like, “When are you two going to have a baby?” You just don’t know what people are going through. When we think about pregnancy loss, we often overlook the population that is denied the opportunity through infertility, and this to me, must be one of the hardest challenges of all.
If someone has made it public that they have lost their baby, then don’t cross the street when you see them coming – simply acknowledge their loss. If they named their child, then use the child’s name. I love hearing my daughter’s name spoken. I wish I could hear it all the time.
Another thing you can do is donate to Sands Whakatane.
It’s not a well-known or glamourous charity, but its work is so important. There are currently four bereaved mums on the committee who rely on donated funds to put together the miscarriage and stillbirth packs that are used far more often than any of us would like to imagine.
Our daughter has a legacy. She taught us just how precious life is and that we need to be grateful for the good things we have. We have a hole in our hearts, but life is still good, and we’ll live it fully for her sake.
-Contributed